Every Moment That Matters
by LatteGirl Ly
Summary: When John Watson moves in with Sherlock, Mycroft brings an old friend back into Sherlock's life to make certain that John will be a good influence on his brother.   Sherlock/OC eventually?   T for now, maybe M later for drug references.


**Author Notes: This is my first real fanfic, or at least the only one I've been brave enough to post, so just a couple of things first:**

**1) I own nothing except Emma Bellamy, who is my original character.**

**2) This story is an AU in regards to how Emma knows the Holmes Boys. **

**3) Some of the chapters in this story occur directly after one another but most of it will be a collection of one-shots that occur in a linear fashion (hence the title). **

**4****) Enjoy!**

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><p>The Call<p>

It started with a call. She was sitting in her kitchen when her cell phone rang. It was the distinctive sound of a siren she had programed for this particular person. She pulled the shrieking phone from her front pocket.

"What's happened now, Mycroft?"

There were only a few reasons Mycroft Holmes ever called her and every one of them had to do with Sherlock Holmes doing something incredibly stupid or dangerous. The list fluttered through her mind and she found herself holding her breath, praying it wasn't the cocaine.

"My brother has a made friend," he said simply.

She sighed with relief.

"Don't frighten a girl like that, Mycroft. Wait... did you say Sherlock made a... _friend_?"

She chuckled and tried to imagine Sherlock with an actual friend, but the thought made her smile. It was progress.

"Is there some reason we should be concerned? We both know you'd only call me if you thought this new friend might be... hazardous to Sherlock," she said.

"No, no, nothing like that. I'm actually rather eager for you to meet him. So if you don't mind hopping on a plane, I have a first class ticket waiting for you at JFK."

She sighed quietly; being friends with both Mycroft and Sherlock could be rather draining at times. They both assumed that she could just drop everything whenever they needed her. But Mycroft knew something Sherlock never had: that when it came to his younger brother she'd do anything to make sure he was safe and cared for.

"When does it leave?" she asked.

"9:12 local time."

She looked at the clock. It was seven forty-five.  
>"I'll be there."<p>

"Good... oh, how is your father?"

"He's fine... better now."

"Good, good, I wouldn't want to take you away from him if he was in dire need of you."

She rolled her eyes. His concern hadn't appeared until after she'd already agreed to go.

"Yeah," she muttered before hanging up the phone. She slid it back into her pocket and one hour and twenty-seven minutes later she found herself in seat 2 of row C on a plane bound for London.

_London_, she thought. She hadn't been there in almost two years. She loved the city more than any place she'd ever been, though she suspected there might be another reason than the city itself, but with her father's health she had moved back to the states full time to become his caretaker.

She had told her father about Mycroft's call the moment she had hung up the phone, and she had also told him that she could always call back and say he needed her more. But he had merely smiled and taken both her hands in his and said,

"You've put your life on hold because of me, Emma. No daughter should ever be forced to do that. I'll be fine. I have the nurses and your Aunt Mary is right down the road. Besides," he had kissed her cheek then, "I know how much you miss him."

Her dad had always been acutely aware of how she felt about Sherlock. He had tried to get her to go visit over the last two years, but she had always put it off because she couldn't bring herself to leave him in such a fragile state. The thought of leaving him now still killed her. But he said he wouldn't hear of her passing up a free first class trip to England. So she agreed to go but only just.

After an hour of waiting, the plane finally took off and in exactly six hours and thirty-five minutes later she landed at Heathrow airport. She gave Mycroft a quick call to tell him she'd arrived, and as she made her way through the airport he filled her in on the details of Sherlock's new flat mate. She hung up the phone just as she stepped outside into the dreary London night and a light mist hit her face. It felt good to be home. She hailed a cab, slid inside, and gave the cab driver the address Mycroft had given her: 221B Baker Street.

She watched the city lights of London pass by in a blur and she suddenly realized how excited and anxious she was. The last time she'd seen Sherlock, she had been in the middle of helping him solve one of his cases when her father had suffered from his second heart attack. That was when she had decided to move back home permanently. She could still see Sherlock standing outside her flat, the rain kissing his curls, as she drove away in the taxi cab. She had waited until the car had rounded the corner before she had cried.

But now here she was, two years later, coming back. She was vaguely afraid that Sherlock wouldn't appreciate her return or that he would even want her to come back. She pushed that thought out of her head, though, because it would do no good to dwell on things that might be.

The drive through London seemed agonizing as the moment that she would be reunited with Sherlock grew closer. It was a Friday night, and every time the cab stopped at a light or slowed from traffic she grew impatient. Sherlock would blame that on her being American. He blamed a lot of things on that fact. But eventually, after a grueling fifty minutes, the cab pulled up in front of Sherlock's new residence.

She half skipped up to the door, her small bag in hand; she hadn't exactly had much time to pack. She knocked on the door and waited. An elderly woman, in her night gown, opened the door. Emma, in her haste to see Sherlock, had completely forgotten it was after ten.

"Hello," she said. "I know it's rather late, but does Sherlock Holmes live here?"

"Oh, yes, he's upstairs," she replied as she stepped back to allow Emma into the small front hall.

"You must be in quite a bind if you're calling so late, my dear," the lady said.

Emma looked at her, confused for a moment by her assumption.

"Oh no, I'm not a client," she corrected. "I'm an old friend of Sherlock's."

The woman's face lit up at her words.

"Oh, dearie, why didn't you say so?" she said, shaking one of Emma's hands with both of hers. "I'm Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's landlady."

_Landlady? _Emma thought. Poor Mrs. Hudson, knowing Sherlock she'd become his housekeeper eventually.

"I'm Emma," she said politely.

"It's such a relief to know that Sherlock has a friend like you," she said.

_A friend like her?_

"Oh no... It's not like that," she assured her.

Mrs. Hudson's face fell, and Emma felt a little guilty for crushing her imagination that Sherlock had a girlfriend.

"Well, go on up then," Mrs. Hudson said before returning to her room.

Emma set her bag down by the door and bounded up the steps, two at a time, but took the last three in a single stride. She stood outside the door, the only thing that was separating her from Sherlock. Her heart began to quicken in her chest, and she could feel her fingers shaking in anticipation. She stood there for several minutes and took a few deep breaths to calm her nerves before knocking on the door.

She could hear the two voices behind the door cease their conversation at the sound and a voice, a voice she would know anywhere, told her to enter. Bidden by that voice she pushed the door open with a little too much force and leaned herself against the door frame, her arms crossed, enjoying the brief flicker of surprise that crossed Sherlock Holmes' face.

"Hey, Sherlock, miss me?" she said with a grin.

Sherlock rose from his seat, his face already composed. She stepped into the room, making her way towards him, and examined his every feature. His brown curly hair that fell into his intense blue eyes. The curve of his lips and cheekbones. The shirt which was unbuttoned slightly. The line of his arms, which could be both strong and gentle, and his hands, which had always been able to completely envelop hers. She realized that her memory of him paled in comparison to the living version. If she hadn't been keeping a mental note of it, she might have stopped breathing as she drank him in.

She stopped a few feet away and waited for his reaction. He was silent for a heartbeat then simply said:

"Your scarf is too bright."

She tried to stop herself from laughing, but she couldn't help it. That had always been one of his pet peeves with her; she wore too many bright colors. Apparently it interfered with his abilities of deduction because it was far too distracting. She honestly hadn't even remembered, until that moment, that she was wearing a shockingly red scarf.

"After two years, Sherlock Holmes, _that_ is what you have to say to me?" she asked, trying to control her laughter. Sherlock cocked head to the side, as his eyes swept over her. He was examining her the same way she had been examining him, but she knew his eyes were seeing something completely different.

"Welcome home," was what he said next, and she found herself walking straight into his open arms. It was an odd hug, the sort you experience when the person you're hugging isn't sure how much space between bodies is quite appropriate. But she forced it on him anyway. She had flown nearly seven hours to get here; he could give her a hug.

Still, she pulled away more quickly than she would have liked, because she could feel him growing uncomfortable. She smiled at him and he returned the gesture, but it was a toothless grin which almost made her laugh again. She shook her head and took stock of the other figure in the room, whom she had completely ignored upon arrival but with Sherlock Holmes in the room how could she notice anyone else?

"You must be John Watson," she said, extending a hand to the man.

He shook her hand and smiled, but his eyes were full of confusion.

"I'm Emma Bellamy, an old friend of Sherlock's," she introduced herself, trying to ease his confusion, but now he simply frowned.

"I thought you didn't have any friends, Sherlock," he said.

Sherlock waved his hand indifferently and plopped onto the sofa.

"She's not a friend... she's... family," he said carefully, clearly not certain that was the word he was looking for, but it would do.

"I've known Sherlock for quite a long time... Nearly twenty-years, hasn't it been?" she said, looking at Sherlock for confirmation. He was silent for a fraction of a second.

"Nineteen years, seven months, and thirteen days," he replied.

"Wow," John said. "He can remember the exact date the two of you met, but he doesn't know the earth revolves around the sun."

Sherlock tossed John an annoyed side glance.

"Not with that again."

She chuckled. "It's remarkable, isn't it?"

Sherlock frowned at her. "Not you too."

She shrugged and winked at John.

Sherlock looked her up and down again.

"How's your father?" Sherlock asked. "By the state of your nails I'd say he's –"

She interrupted him by placing a single finger over his lips. They were soft against her touch.

"No. No analyzing. Not tonight," she said firmly.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't press the issue.

"Wow," John said again. "I didn't realize it was possible to stop him from doing that every five minutes."

"It takes persistence," she replied.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

"So why did Mycroft send you to check up on me this time?" he asked.

Of course, he knew. It seemed to have become a rather common occurrence over the last decade. In fact, she couldn't remember the last time she had actually come to visit Sherlock of her own accord.

"Mycroft sent you?" John asked, obviously confused by the dynamic of their relationship.

She started to speak, but Sherlock answered for her.

"Yes. You see, when I've been particularly troublesome or Mycroft is trying to be our mother, he calls Emma and disrupts her life so that she can come _sort me out. _And it's the only reason she's here now."

She frowned at him, his words had stung. He was correct, of course, but him saying it aloud definitely hurt.

"That's a bit unfair, Sherlock," she said. "You know why I haven't been able to visit. And you're one to talk about disrupting people's lives."

Emma didn't know how many potential boyfriends Sherlock had driven away with his antics of deducing every single thing about them. He had particularly liked spilling all their darkest secrets in very public places.

Sherlock murmured something she didn't catch, and she sat down on the coffee table.

"Let's not do this, Sherlock. I'm here... that's all that matters. And hopefully I'll be around for a while this trip."

He stared at her, his eyes narrowed dubiously but he nodded all the same. Satisfied, she once again turned her attention back to John.

"I'm terribly sorry. I barged in here and completely disrupted your evening," she apologized to him. She didn't miss Sherlock murmur about her not apologizing for disrupting _his_ night.

"No, no," he said shaking his head. "It's nice to meet a friend of Sherlock's."

"Well," she said, "I hope you and I can become friends too."

John nodded but it was a hesitant nod, as if he wasn't certain that he wanted to be her friend.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"Sorry... I'm just wondering. Sherlock said nineteen years. How did you two meet, exactly?"

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><p><strong>Thank you so much for reading!<strong>

**Reviews, thoughts, and suggestions are greatly appreciated! **

**I have a lot more written and if people like the story I will definitely post more.**

**Cheers! **


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